


the voicemail

by rockethop



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Blood, Break Up, F/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:47:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26658412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockethop/pseuds/rockethop
Summary: “Leslie… It’s Ben. But you already know that. Unless you deleted my number. I don’t know.”Leslie's first seven days after her break up with Ben were going well, thank you very much. They were going well - until they weren't.(drabble)
Relationships: Leslie Knope/Ben Wyatt
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	the voicemail

She doesn’t go to work the first day after opening the box.

She doesn’t go to work the second day after opening the box.

She finally sucks it up and returns on day three.

And she really ought to be more sympathetic of the unread texts and emails trickling into her inboxes on day four, but still she sits on her bed in the dark, warm bottle of wine balancing negligently on her white comforter, her thumb circling the circumference of the insolent mylar button.

On day five, the damned thing cuts her and - sadistically - she thinks that the red liquid oozing from her fingertip is a preferable alternative to the emotional warfare currently occurring behind her sullen eyes.

Day six brings a concerned Ann Perkins to her doorstep, fists pounding against the oak wood with screamed threats of calling the police, of staging a break-in, or - worse of all - involving Ron.

Day seven is the day when what she’s spent every waking moment working on, the unsupported, not yet reinforced foundations of her life - of her life  _ without him  _ \- comes toppling to the ground with just one voicemail.

She decides she’s not going to listen to it.

She’s not going to subjugate herself to the distress that arises from hearing him speak. She’s not going to diminish her progress, she won’t let him take yet another piece of herself to carry around with him, to withhold from her and flaunt so thoughtlessly like he did by showing up on the lawn of the campaign rally.

So her thumb hovers over the red delete button. Red’s a harsh color, she thinks while her thumb trembles, incapable of completing such an insignificant action like erasing a voicemail.

Maybe she changes her mind. Or maybe her finger slipped in some sort of psychosomatic betrayal. But his voice crackles through her phone’s speaker nonetheless.

“Leslie… It’s Ben. But you already know that. Unless you deleted my number. I don’t know.”

The noise emanating from the tiny speaker ceases and she watches as the bar nears closer to the end of the recording, watches the seconds tick down closer to zero. The blue light stings her eyes as it illuminates her dark bedroom and her fingers cast shadows on the ceiling. Or perhaps the stinging was the result of the accumulation of tears on her waterline.

“I didn’t know if I should reach out or not. I don’t think I should have but I, uh, I think it’s too late for that now. But I’m worried about you. I think everyone is worried about you. But you can’t just ignore the people that care about you. You can’t not show up for work for two days in a row without calling in. It’s incredibly selfish and not like you. I… I don’t know how to get through to you. I don’t know how to explain to you that you should care about other people’s feelings.”

She laughs. A sardonic, spiteful little thing. Her breath builds in a fiery crescendo until every exhale burns violently with disdain towards a person she never could’ve imagined herself being furious with, bar their tumultuous start.

_ Wash your hair and be rid of him,  _ a meek voice tells her. It’s a phrase her mother used to mutter frequently while she was growing up, but she’d always said it with more hostility - like a woman scorned. It’s not until she repeats it aloud that she recognizes the measly voice from before as her own.

So she stumbles into her shower, the scalding water burning her delicate skin but she persists in her attempts to retain her purity, in her pursuit of personal restoration, in returning to the person she was before Ben Wyatt.

So she rinses, lathers, and repeats.

But she’ll never be clean.


End file.
